Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
1917
On a certain brilliant Spring morning in London's City the seed of theStory was lightly sown. Within the directors' room of the AasvogelSyndicate, Manchester House, New Broad Street, was done and hidden away adeed, simple and commonplace, which in due season was fated to yield aweighty crop of consequences complex and extraordinary.
At the table, pen in hand, sat a young man, slight of build, but of freshcomplexion, and attractive, eager countenance, neither definitely fairnor definitely dark. He was silently reading over a document engrossed onbluish hand-made folio; not a lengthy document—nineteen lines, to beprecise. And he was reading very slowly and carefully, chiefly to obligethe man standing behind his chair.
This man, whose age might have been anything between forty and fifty, andwhose colouring was dark and a trifle florid, would probably have evokedthe epithet of "handsome" on the operatic stage, and in any city butLondon that of "distinguished." In London, however, you could hardly failto find his like in one or other of the west-end restaurants about 8 p.m.
Francis Bullard, standing erect in the sunshine, a shade over-fedlooking, but perfectly groomed in his regulation city garb, an enigmaticsmile under his neat black moustache as he watched the reader, suggestednothing ugly or mean, nothing worse, indeed, than worldly prosperity anda frank enjoyment thereof. His well-kept fingers toyed with a little goldnugget depending from his watch chain—his only ornament.
The third man was seated in a capacious leather-covered, easy chair bythe hearth. Leaning forward, he held his palms to the fire, though notnear enough for them to have derived much warmth. He was extremely talland thin. The head was long and rather narrow, the oval countenance hadsingularly refined features. The hair, once reddish, now almost grey, wasparted in the middle and very smoothly brushed; the beard was clippedclose to the cheeks and trimmed to a point. Bluish-grey eyes, deepset,gave an impression of weariness and sadness; indeed the whole face hintedat melancholy. Its attractive kindliness was marred by a certainfurtiveness. He was as stylishly dressed as his co-director, Bullard, butin light grey tweed; and he wore a pearl of price on his tie and a finediamond on his little finger. His name was Robert Lancaster, and no manever started life with loftier ideals and cleaner intentions.
At last the young man at the table, with a brisk motion, dipped his pen.
"One moment, Alan," said Bullard, and touched a bell-button.
A couple of clerks entered.
"Rose and Ferguson, you will witness Mr. Alan Craig's signature. Allright now, Alan!"
The young man dashed down his name and got up smiling.
Never was last will and testament more eagerly, more cheerfully signed.
The clerks performed their parts and retired.
Alan Craig seized Bullard's hand. "I'm more than obliged to you," he saidheartily, "and to you, too, Mr. Lancaster." He darted over to the hearth.
The oldish man seemed to rouse himself for the handshake. "Of course,it's merely a matter of form, Alan," he said, and cleared his throat;"merely a matter of form. In ordinary times you would hav